


Safe Harbor

by beetle



Series: Out to Sea [2]
Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awesome Phil Coulson, Daddy Kink, Feels, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Peter is a Pillow Princess, Phil Coulson Is a Good Bro, Science Husbands, Spideypool - Freeform, Virgin Peter Parker, Wade is a Caring Daddy, phlint - Freeform, unmasking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Set immediately after Spider-Man and Deadpool are rescued from a HYDRA ship that put out to sea with the two costumed crusaders held prisoner. Peter had said that if he and Wade made it out of HYDRA's clutches alive, he’d gladly be Wade’s “Pillow Princess,” which Wade had seemed pretty overjoyed about. Now, it’s a few hours later, on the evening of their rescue, and . . . well, Peter’s a man of his word. And Wade? Wade's nowhere to be found.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cat_Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Eyes/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: AU. Written as a sequel to [Out to Sea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8122102). No warnings. Can be read as a standalone, but where's the fun in that?

 

“Yeah . . . yeah, Aunt May, I will. Sorry. Okay. Loveyatalktoyatomorroweveningbye!”

 

Peter ended the call with relief and slumped back in his Papasan chair. Across the single room of his tiny apartment in Bed-Stuy, Peter’s bed—well, _futon_ , but a new one that didn’t creak and rock. An early birthday gift from his Aunt May—sat mockingly out of reach, it’s slightly mussy blankets a siren-song of sweet, sweet sleep. . . .

 

Groaning, Peter leaned back fully in the chair, still in the baggy, nondescript, grey loaner-sweats from the Tower’s endless supply. In a matching gym bag at his feet, was the remains of his spidey-suit, as well as two replacements, via Tony Stark. Both Peter and said suits had been dropped off home by one of Mr. Stark’s cars. (Not that Peter had needed or wanted a ride home, initially, but after waiting around for Deadpool—for _Wade_ —only to find out the former-merc had already left the Tower after what was probably an interesting debriefing with Agent Coulson, he’d been too disheartened to demur.)

 

He’d have probably stood around the Tower lobby all night waiting for Wade, if he hadn’t run into Agent Coulson. Rather, if the agent hadn't run into _Peter_. And Coulson’d indeed looked rather exasperated and weary—for _Coulson_ , anyway—when he strode out of a code-locked and unnumbered door, probably on his way to confer with Nick Fury.

 

“I take it debriefing Wa—er, Deadpool was as amusing as ever,” Peter had said nervously, blushing as he wondered what, exactly, the subtle agent might’ve gotten out of Wade about their . . . time in HYDRA’s hospitable hands. But Coulson had made a noncommittal noise that told Peter nothing.

 

“As . . . entertaining as he can be, I wasn’t sorry when he went home,” Coulson had admitted mildly.

 

“He . . . he left?” Peter had asked, unable to help the way his face fell. Coulson glanced at him briefly, then _again_ , his serious brows lifting fractionally, as he seemed to look right through Peter. It was eerie the way such an inoffensive, _unassuming_ man could just _do_ that. Peter had often wondered how Barton put up with being married to someone who could psychoanalyze him in point-five seconds flat.

 

Then Peter had eventually decided that for someone like Barton, a closed-up clam about his own feelings and past—as if Peter had any room to judge—maybe Coulson’s ability to read the human soul was . . . appreciated by Barton? Even a _turn-on_? Like, in the literal, foreplay-sense?

 

And, at about that time, Peter had shuddered and turned his poor brain to something— _anything_ —else.

 

At any rate, Coulson had only read _Peter’s_ soul for a few seconds that particular time, clearly busy with the other things on his plate. But as he’d looked away, dead-ahead at the elevators they were both waiting for—him up, Peter down—his lips had twitched just a tiny bit. As if he’d wanted to smile.

 

“Mm. Couldn’t seem to get out of the Tower fast enough, in fact. You’d think he had a train to catch. Or something,” Coulson had noted without inflection, and Peter’s shoulders had sagged.

 

“I see,” he’d mumbled glumly, brows furrowed, mind full of consternation and hurt. But then Coulson had done a strange thing, indeed. He’d _laughed_. Not his polite chuckle, which was all probably anyone but Barton and maybe Romanov got to hear. No, this had been a full, hearty _guffaw_. One that’d startled Peter into blinking up at the other man, whose head had been tilted back and up a little as he’d laughed.

 

“Oh . . . oh, my. Looks like I owe Clint twenty bucks, after all. He’s just gonna be insufferable, after this,” Coulson had added as if speaking to himself, still practically giggling as he covered his mouth momentarily.

 

Starting to get a bit weirded out, Peter had taken a step back from the older man. “Um. Are you, uh . . . okay, Agent Coulson?”

 

Coulson had looked at Peter again, mirth still dancing in his earnest blue eyes as he’d given Peter another once-over, this one amused and almost wistful.

 

“Listen, Parker . . . _Peter_ ,” he’d corrected himself, reaching into the breast pocket of his charcoal suit-jacket, behind his lilac pocket-square, for his sleek work-phone. (Peter had one just like it.) Coulson had unlocked his phone with his middle fingerprint and poked around. A few seconds later, Peter’s own phone—a replacement for the one HYDRA had deep-sixed after capturing him and Deadpool—buzzed. Frowning, Peter had taken the phone out of the pocket of his borrowed sweats and saw that he had one notification for an unread text message.

 

He’d looked up at Coulson questioningly. The other man had smiled and put his phone away again.

 

“That’s the current whereabouts of a . . . mutual acquaintance of ours.” Coulson’s straight brows had quirked just a bit, and in a way that had made Peter, who was still completely lost, flush, nonetheless. “Do what you will with it, but you didn’t get it from me—this conversation never happened . . . yadda-yadda.”

 

“ _Yadda-yadda_?” Peter had squinted and wrinkled his nose. Coulson had shrugged easily and turned toward the middle elevator just as it dinged and the doors opened. It was going up.

 

“Clint’s rubbing off on me, I suppose.” Then Coulson’s cheeks turned bright pink. “Which I meant simply as a figure of speech, of course.”

 

“Of course. Uh—”

 

“Anyway. Have a good night, Parker.” Another quick once-over that made Coulson smile again. But this time, it was just his usual serene, placid smile, and he stepped onto the waiting elevator. “Ninetieth floor, please, Friday. Thanks. And Parker? Don’t sit on that for too long, huh?”

 

The elevator dinged again as the doors began to close smoothly. “Yes, Agent Coulson,” Friday replied with _her_ usual lilting serenity.

 

“Sit on _what_?” Peter’d asked, exasperated and _still_ blushing, damnit! The last he saw of Coulson was the man’s far too amused, cornflower-blue eyes drifting up to the bar of floor numbers above the closing doors.

 

“So, Friday, is my husband still on the premises?”

 

“Yes, Agent Coulson. Agent Barton is playing _Call of Duty_ with Mr. Stark in Dr. Banner’s research lab.”

 

A snort from Coulson. “Banner’s gotta be _thrilled_ about that. . . .”

 

Then the doors had shut on Friday’s reply and Peter had been left alone to wait for the next elevator, holding his gymbag and clutching his phone.

 

Now, as he fought not to fall asleep in his Papasan chair, he fumbled his phone back up to his face and unlocked it. Checked his text messages. No new ones. And the most recent one had already been read.

 

The address that’d arrived in his inbox—from _Unknown_ , no phone number, or other identifying info of origin—had long since been memorized on the drive from the Avenger’s Tower. Peter had even, though it’d taken most of the ride down in the elevator to the Tower’s lobby, realized whose address it was, too.

 

And, right on cue, just thinking about the address made his tired body suddenly zing with wakefulness. Especially certain parts of his anatomy that just _didn’t_ , of a sudden, know how to play dead, as they had been since he was sixteen.

 

Tired, but somewhat alarmed, Peter shifted his legs and watched as he slowly began to tent out his sweatpants. Then, as a small wet patch grew and grew at the crotch. By the time he closed his eyes and slipped his hand down his sweats, his cock was hot and rigid and wet—nearly too sensitive to touch without almost agonizing jolts of sharp pleasure that Peter had never experienced before.

 

With his eyes closed, he could more easily imagine that the palm cupping his full, tight balls wasn’t his own, but a larger, more callused, more experienced palm. That the fingers inching their tentative way—though surely the fingers Peter was imagining would _not_ be at all _tentative_ —along his damp, vulnerable perineum to the place where only one man had ever gone before, belonged _to_ that one man, and him only.

 

After hesitating a moment—long enough to shove his other hand up his sweatshirt to pinch his right nipple—Peter circled the twitching, hot rim of his asshole with fingers that shook and trembled. Not that he let that stop him, or even slow him down, at this point. After teasing himself to the point of thrusting up into the air for friction he knew he just wouldn’t get, Peter pushed his index and middle fingers into his body about halfway, too fast for second thoughts or doubts.

 

“Oh, my _God_! _Wade_!” he wailed as he clamped down around his finger with a force that surprised him—or would have if he wasn’t busy coming so hard, all he could hear was his own trip-hammering, racing heart-beat in his ears. He literally did not hear the desperate, breathless cries torn from his throat as he pumped his release into his borrowed sweats and ground down on his own—not even close to enough—fingers.

 

After his body went limp, except for his still half-hard cock, Peter panted and shook. Pulled his fingers out of his body so fast, it kind of hurt a little . . . and the emptiness he immediately felt when they were gone was . . . unpleasant. He felt both sated and not. Satisfied and not. Wrecked but energized. Wired but tired.

 

And kind of gross.

 

When he could coerce his limp, wrung-out body to sit up, Peter wiped his sticky hand on his sweatshirt. Then he picked the dropped phone up off the floor, tossed it underhand at his desk, and stood up slowly, painstakingly. He shucked his sweatshirt and pants, not even bothering to toss them in the general direction of his hamper, and made his way to his cramped bathroom.

 

By the time he finished his shower, he’d made himself come four times more, with Wade’s name on his lips the entire time and, eventually, four fingers—he could've done with more—up his ass.

 

The water ran cold as he was working toward shower-gasm number three. His cock was utterly undeterred by the suddenly freezing spray, partly because of years of neglect by Peter and partly because Peter had finally managed to find his own prostate.

 

“ _Oh-oh-oh, Wade_. . . .” he whispered, in a voice ragged and mostly gone, by this point, as increased pressure on said prostate not only made him come, but come harder than he had previously. And far more. For most of a minute, mixed in with the ice-cold water pounding down the front of him, was also hot spatters of come that’d _burned_ coming out, but in a way that was somehow . . . _good_.

 

Only _one_ thing could’ve made the whole shower better, really.

 

As Peter recovered under the icy water—still half-hard, because . . . _years_ of neglect. _Literally_ —letting the spray wash away the evidence of his ultimate return to humanity, he thought of the address sitting in his phone.

 

He thought of rough callused fingers on him and in him, so gentle and tender . . . till they _weren’t_ anymore. Till Peter had needed them to be otherwise.

 

He thought of incredibly soft, scarred skin rubbing against his own, breaking him out in goosebumps and just, from its merest touch, making him hard again.

 

He thought of _Wade_ . . . leaning over him, index and middle fingers brushing across Peter’s abdomen, smearing thoroughly, somehow sexily in their combined come, before those same fingers had gone where no man’s had ever gone before. Teasing tortuously around Peter’s rim before breaching that guardian muscle, which’d hurt in the best way . . . then Wade, _oh, God Wade_ , was _inside him_ , thrusting those big, thick, callused-soft fingers in him ceaselessly, like a machine or something. Scissoring them slowly, but noticeably, increasingly, as he found, then applied pressure to something so amazingly sensitive and desperate for touch, it could’ve only been Peter’s prostate. And the rest of Peter’s body had _certainly_ noticed, arching up off the bunk bed with a soft, breathless cry, nearly bucking Wade off him. But the other man had merely chuckled and slowed his ministrations, rubbing his free hand across Peter’s chest soothingly, till Peter was lying flat again, writhing on the bunk, legs tightly clenched around Wade’s powerful thighs, as his body did its best to keep Wade’s fingers right where they were.

 

“That’s it, Princess,” Wade’d murmured in a harsh, hungry voice, leaning down to kiss Peter’s wet, wide-open mouth. “Daddy’s gonna take such _good_ care of you. Got so many things I wanna show you. You don’t even know how _bad_ I wanna be inside you, right now. You don’t even _know_.” And with that, Wade had kissed him again, lewd and lazily, his tongue just everywhere as his fingers sped up and increased the pressure and force of their unerring thrusts. Till Peter couldn’t even focus to pucker up for those kisses, merely let Wade invade his mouth, map it, and taste the cries Peter made, before he drank them down as his due.

 

Then, after a series of thrusts that bordered on just-too-much, Peter came hard and long with a high-pitched cry, as oxygen whistled in and out of his nose. And still Wade kissed him hard and fucked him hard, till Peter was gasping and weeping—too caught up in pleasure’s iron claws to even _thrash_ —as another orgasm took his body by storm.

 

“That’s it . . . that’s my sweet boy . . . my perfect little Princess,” Wade had finally stopped kissing him to murmur on Peter’s kiss-swollen lips, even as the fingers in him slowed and gentled, still scissoring just a bit before, as Peter finally came back down to Earth, going mostly still.

 

Neither of them spoke for long minutes, though Peter hissed as Wade pulled out of him carefully, gently, hushing him with kisses and whispered praise. Peter had only been capable of whimpering in reply, but Wade merely chuckled and continued to lavish that quiet praise on him. Then he had kissed the tip of Peter’s nose affectionately, a bit urgently, nuzzling his nose and cheeks, as Peter realized the other man was still hard and thrusting against his abdomen in the fresh and old come that was—mostly—Peter’s. Wade slid back and forth in the tacky mess, grunting and moaning, eventually biting his lip almost bloody and, with a low, groaned-out: “ _FUCK_!” supplied his own copious addition to the morass between them. . . .

 

With a surprised and satisfied huff, Peter had passed out . . . a small smile on his lips. Only to be woken up as the HYDRA ship convulsed from the Avengers’ attack on it, pitching Peter and Wade to the floor of their prison.

 

Now, Peter, hard once again, shut off the icy spray and stepped out of the shower, shivering and determined. He dried off while meeting his own grimly focused gaze in the medicine cabinet mirror. He looked pale, skinny, and too-young . . . all big, sad dark eyes and pouty, uncertain mouth.

 

Like a partially-drowned gerbil.

 

What Wade saw in him, he supposed he’d _never_ know.

 

But he was beyond doubting that the other man wanted him. Or at least had, when they were facing the real threat of death.

 

And Peter wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —allow himself to think that Wade might _not still_ want him. That without that threat of death, there might not be any spark on _Wade’s_ end at all. Because if Peter was still feeling it this _powerfully_ . . . Wade _had to be_ , too, right? _One person_ couldn’t feel all this for someone who didn’t want them back even a _little_ , right?

 

Right?

 

As Peter brushed his teeth then spat, he stared himself down and remembered what Coulson had said:

 

_“Don’t sit on that for too long, huh?”_

 

Nodding at his reflection—pathetically young and woebegone, but it’d have to do, since it was the only face Peter had—he turned away from the mirror to go get dressed.

 

“I won’t, Agent Coulson. I won’t.”

 

#

 

At 11:17p.m., Peter Parker knocked on an unfamiliar door in a run-down building in Alphabet City that was still nicer than his own.

 

His spidey-sense tingled once, briefly as someone approached the door and probably peered out the peephole. Standing up straight and looking dead at said peephole, Peter tried to smile and managed what was at best a dyspeptic grimace worthy of Dr. Banner.

 

A minute later, the door slowly opened, revealing a partially-dressed Wade, mask fully on, but otherwise wearing only drawstring, red-plaid pajama bottoms. His broad, built, scarred chest was bare, as were his huge arms. He was breathing fast, though, as if he’d just been chased.

 

Those emotive lenses were wide with surprise and undoubtedly focused on Peter as Wade leaned against the door-post heavily.

 

“Shit,” he said quietly. Then: “How’d you find me?”

 

Swallowing, Peter felt the first cracks in his towering sense of determination. Had he been wrong, after all?

 

But then Wade was shaking his head and chuckling wryly. “Actually, I don’t even give a fuck _how_. What I really wanna know is . . . _why’d_ you find me, Pete?”

 

Peter swallowed again, holding the white gaze of those lenses. “I—I—” he stammered, suddenly feeling stupid and useless and pathetic. The hands he held behind his back clutched tightly at their burden—which’d honestly, at the time, seemed like a puckish and fun way to declare his intentions, and now just seemed plain juvenile—and he flushed awfully. “I just . . . I needed . . . I _wanted_ to. . . .”

 

“To what?” Wade asked, not unkindly, but still rather impersonally. As if Peter was a Girl Scout at his door, asking for donations. “What’s up, Petey-pants? Whatcha got behind your back?”

 

“Nothing,” Peter mumbled, taking a step back and dropping his gaze. This had been . . . a bad idea. _Feelings_ were _always_ a bad idea. Especially when Peter was the one having them. “I just—I shouldn’t have come here. Sorry. G’night, Deadpool.”

 

And Peter started to back away, so busy kicking himself, that he barely got warned by his exasperated spidey-sense that Wade was moving until the other man had grabbed him and pulled him close again, yanking Peter’s burden from his sweaty hands.

 

“What the—?” Wade started to say, holding said burden up to the light as if to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Peter, his face gone stony and pale, but for the dark, wary glitter of his eyes and hectic red spots at his cheeks, instinctively put his back to the wall opposite Wade’s door as the other man held up the pretty, silly, plastic tiara with its fake diamonds, and purple and pink “gems.” He twisted it to several different angles, examining the three spires that stuck up from the plastic base, and the base itself.

 

Then he was turning that surprised white gaze to Peter again.

 

“I didn’t mean to . . . to _presume_ , okay? This was a bad idea and I’m sorry,” Peter said flatly, calmly. “We can just pretend this never happened, okay?” Wade— _Deadpool_ didn’t respond, merely stared at Peter without any readable expression. Sighing, Peter edged along the wall to the stairway, mouth pursed. “’Night.”

 

“Wait—Peter!”

 

At the top step, Peter paused, but didn’t look back. “What?”

 

Deadpool’s bare feet padded across the floor toward Peter, who turned only because it was common sense not to have a possible enemy at one’s back unwatched. Deadpool was still holding the tiara, but out towards Peter, who inwardly cringed _._ _Of course_ , Deadpool would want Peter to take his trash with him when he left.

 

Peter reached out for the tiara, simultaneously wishing the Earth would open up and swallow him whole. . . .

 

But Deadpool avoided Peter’s hands and instead reached up and up, till his hands were at about head-height. For Peter, anyway. He blinked up at Deadpool in confusion, but those white lenses were staring at the tiara unreadably.

 

“One day, I’ll get you the real thing,” Deadpool said in a hoarse voice, his Adam’s apple bobbing fast and repeatedly. “Or maybe a pretty little jeweled collar with your name on it. Or both. How’s _that_ sound, Princess?”

 

Eyes going wide, Peter glanced up as the tiara drifted out of sight and directly over his head, where Deadpool’s hands paused, clearly awaiting Peter’s answer. He found himself swallowing, too, as he met those slightly narrowed lenses.

 

“Sounds like . . . sounds like what I’ve been needing all my life, actually,” Peter said in a voice that shook. But Uncle Ben’d always said _: Tell the truth, even if your voice shakes, Peter_. So Peter did, and found himself smiling hopefully as his voice firmed. “Besides, I’m a man of my word.”

 

Deadpool’s brows quirked visibly. “So you’re just here because you _said_ you’d be, then?” Unreadable, but definitely not _happy_ voice, and above Peter’s head, Deadpool’s hands faltered.

 

“No—not at all, I just—I’m _here_ even though I’m _scared_ and uncertain and I dunno _what_ you’d possibly want with some scrawny, plain kid like me! I’m here even though I’ve never done _anything_ like this with _anybody_ , and never expected to! I’m here even though everyone I lo—feel stuff for, except for my Aunt May, eventually leaves me, somehow, and . . . I don’t know what makes _you_ so different from ninety-nine point nine percent of the population. What makes me think _you’ll_ be the one to _stay_ , but I’m hoping it’s _something_ because I think . . . I _think_ that it won’t take me long at all to start feeling . . . feeling like I l-love you and maybe can’t live _without_ you. To start feeling . . . _feelings_ _again_. Because I’ve never known anyone like you and I don’t think I ever will again. And _even though_ I’m scared to feel things because I lose just about _everything_ I love, I can’t keep  _not_ _trying_ , anymore. I can’t _stay away_. _Can’t_ go back to being numb and alone and scared of my own _heart_. Wade—”

 

“Hush, Baby Boy,” Deadpool whispered, settling the tiara carefully in Peter’s thick, gelled and combed back hair, which he mussed up quite a bit. “There,” he decided with great satisfaction. He adjusted the tiara a bit then chuckled. “It’ll do, for now. But one thing that’s _definitely_ gonna stop happening is my Princess wearing his hair in that unflattering, missionary-for-the-Lord hairstyle. That hair is too thick and _gorgeous_ to be in any other style than _very sexily rumpled bedhead._ ”

 

Peter felt a small smile tug at the left corner of his mouth. “You volunteering to, uh, give me bedhead, then?”

 

Deadpool—no, _Wade’s_ smirk was visible even through the mask. “I’ll apply myself _diligently_ to the task of giving you the perfect, most realistic bedhead you ever had, Princess.” And Wade’s hands settled on Peter’s shoulders heavily, for a few seconds, before sliding down his chest, to his waist, where they clenched tight, pulling Peter close. And when Peter stumbled forward, till he was flush against Wade’s body, with Wade’s cock poking him in the stomach rather insistently, Wade hummed smugly. “Gonna give you _lotsa_ things, baby.”

 

Peter blinked up at Wade, sliding his arms up and around the other man’s neck.

 

“I, um . . . I’m probably gonna mess this . . . whatever’s between us . . .  up a lot because I’m . . . I’m not good at . . . people. And feelings. And playing nicely with others. I’m prickly and snarky and a know-it-all, and—”

 

“And you clearly don’t know when to shut up,” Wade added, a smile in his voice as he leaned down to place a mask-covered kiss on Peter’s forehead. “But we can work on that, too, Princess. We’ve got plenty of time. But for now,” Wade murmured, backing toward his doorway and pulling Peter along with him. “For now . . . I kinda wanna spend some time learning your sexy little body with my fingers and my tongue, just makin’ you _feel_ , Baby Boy. And then, if you’re still up for it, I wanna be inside you as deep as I can get and as hard. How’s _that_ sound?”

 

Eyes wide once more, Peter nodded slowly. “That sounds, um, yeah. I c-could do that. Um—let _you_ do that. Or, uh . . . _we_  could do that?” He flushed as he realized he didn’t even know the correct pronoun to use. Wade chuckled again, then shut the front door behind them. A moment later he’d swept Peter up in his arms—bridal-style and without knocking off the tiara—and was carrying him through a dark, messy, cluttered living room, down a brief hall, to a door on the left.

 

Then Peter was being laid gently on a soft bed with softer pillows that smelled like Wade and . . . pancakes.

 

“You’re ridiculously adorable, you know that, Princess?” Wade asked, his knee nudging Peter’s legs apart. Then he was kneeling between them and reaching over Peter as he flicked on his bedside lamp. In its light, his scarred skin was golden with intricately-patterned intaglio. Peter couldn’t resist touching, so he didn’t. He reached out slowly, with hands that shook from even that much restraint, but finally let his hands settle on the soft skin of Wade’s chest, which covered warm, firm muscle.

 

Wade watched him with wide lenses his body born up by his right arm and hand, the left hand hovering at Peter’s cheek before tender fingers brushed his face so lightly and reverently, Peter’s breath caught.

 

“You’re gorgeous, Pete. The most gorgeous thing ever,” Wade murmured, his voice gone hoarse and hungry again. Peter’s eyes drifted down Wade’s perfect body, to the erection that was now poking out of the slit in his pajama bottoms. He made a soft, helpless noise in the back of his throat as his left hand dropped to the wet, tantalizing tip of Wade’s big dick and they both shivered as Peter touched and teased, and toyed with the slit, wetting his fingers thoroughly before bringing them to his mouth. He met Wade’s lenses as he sucked the bitter, salty, musky, but not unpleasant taste from his fingers.

 

“Fuck, _sweetheart_ . . . you’re . . . _fuck_. . . .” Wade laughed raggedly, shoving down his pajama bottoms with no regard for his erection. “You _sure_ you’ve never done this before?”

 

“Pretty sure. Well,” Peter amended, in the name of honesty. “Before I came here I, um . . . I made myself come, like, five times while I, um . . . thought about you.”

 

Wade’s lenses widened and his grin was huge behind the mask. “Yeah? What’d you imagine me doing while you touched that pretty cock of yours, huh, Princess?”

 

“I didn’t. Touch my cock, that is.” Peter flushed. Wade seemed confused for a moment.

 

“Then what— _ohhhhh_. Oh. _Fuck_. Baby Boy, you’re . . . Jesus, you’re gonna be the _death_ of me!” Wade complained, but sounded kind of happy, too, as he fisted his cock hard and tight. “How many fingers?”

 

“Just two, at first . . . then three, after I got in the shower. And . . . well, the last time I made myself come . . . four fingers.” Peter was redder than ever, but held Wade’s gaze steadily. The other man shivered and the fingers still caressing Peter’s cheek slowed to a stop.

 

“Four, huh? While standin' in the shower? Jesus, baby, you’re bendy as _fuck_ , aintcha?”

 

“Spidey-agility.” Peter shrugged.

 

“Did it hurt?”

 

“A little,” Peter admitted breathlessly. Wade leaned closer.

 

“And . . . did you _like_ that it hurt a little?”

 

Gulping, Peter nodded. Then said: “Yeah. Yes.”

 

“Did it make you feel full, shoving your fingers up there?”

 

“N-not really. Not like . . . not like _you_ did.”

 

“Fuck . . . and . . . do you like feeling _full_ , Princess?”

 

“I _really_ do,” Peter said with earnest urgency, licking his lips as his eyes drifted to Wade’s dick. “ _Daddy_.”

 

Wade leaned a little closer, still, his breathing practically panting, at this point. “And did you pretend it was Daddy’s dick in you, while you were fucking your greedy, needy little ass with those clever fingers of yours?”

 

“I t-tried, but . . . my fingers aren’t good enough, Daddy. Aren’t _big_ enough.”

 

“ _Fuck_ , baby.” Wade let out an explosive breath, letting go of his dick, which thwapped against his abs, to push his mask up to his nose. His lips were full and bitten and wet, and he leaned down to kiss Peter hard and deep, lowering his body to Peter’s and between his legs, grinding his cock against Peter’s denim covered hard-on. Peter wrapped his arms around Wade’s neck, and when it became clear that Wade wasn’t smothering Peter under his body weight, he stopped bearing himself up on his arm altogether, instead settling on Peter and flailing for his night-table again.

 

“ _Jackpot_ ,” he breathed, pushing himself up just enough to look into Peter’s dazed eyes, seeming rather reluctant out of left field. "I mean, uh. . . ."

 

Peter smiled, bobbing up just enough to nuzzle Wade’s nose with his own. He knew _exactly_ what Wade had been digging for in his night-table. So this sudden hesitation was . . . baffling.

 

“Wade . . . fuck me. Please?” he asked. Then, smirking: “Please, _Daddy_?”

 

“Keep that up, naughty boy, and you’re gonna wind up with my come all over those mom-jeans you’re wearing.” But Wade’s voice was almost pleading, instead of snarky. Peter’s smirk grew wider. “Jesus, I said I was gonna pamper you like the Princess you are, not just shove my dick in you straight-off like you’re a back-alley whore!”

 

Peter shivered hard. “Maybe I _want_ you to treat me like a back-alley whore, tonight? Maybe I want it hard and fast and intense. Maybe . . . maybe I _need_ it like that.”

 

Wade bit his lip. “Petey, baby, your first time—”

 

“Should be exactly the way _I_ _want_ it. Right?” Peter blinked innocently up at Wade, who sighed, shaking his head.

 

“Baby, listen. . . .”

 

“Please, Papa Bear?” Peter batted his eyes in a way that felt patently ridiculous— _at least_ as ridiculous as him calling another man _Papa Bear_ —but Wade groaned so hungrily and thrust his cock against Peter’s sharply, so it couldn’t have been too awful-looking a face or awful-sounding a nickname. “Please fuck me? I promise, it’ll be _perfect_ for me. So good and perfect. You’re gonna make me feel so special and _full_ , just . . . _please_? _Please_?”

 

“Damn, that really _is_ the magic word, ain’t it?” Then Wade ripped Peter’s jeans off, tossing the ruined denim over his shoulders. And Peter’s similarly ruined jockeys right after them. With the full-frontal contact, they both groaned and started grinding against each other with urgent intensity. Peter only barely heard the sound of a cap being flicked open over his own desperate moans, but when Wade pushed his left leg up and out, Peter automatically spread for the other man, hissing in a breath that Wade captured with his mouth even as his cool, gel-slick fingers continued their way between Peter’s cheeks, to his waiting, twitching hole.

 

“Oh-oh- _unh_  . . . _Daddy_ ,” Peter gasped, clutching at Wade tighter as those big, slippery fingers traced his rim slowly, teasingly at first, then faster and with more abandon, before the first two pushed into his body, past the slightly relaxed, but ever vigilant guardian muscle. Peter arched up off the bed, lifting his own body and Wade’s for long moments, before he flopped back down, clenching around Wade’s fingers.

 

“That’s it, Princess,” Wade murmured in his low, rough rumble as he bit hickeys into Peter’s neck and collar bone. His fingers drove deeper into Peter’s tightly-controlled body, slowly, but steadily. “You’re doing _so_ good for me. So good for Daddy.”

 

“Please . . . _please_. . . .” Peter kept moaning, tears squeezing out of his squinched-shut eyes and rolling down his flushed cheeks. It was too much and not enough at the same time. He’d never _felt so much intense pleasure_ in his entire life. And he needed. . . . “ _More_.”

 

“Anything my Baby Boy wants,” Wade promised, shoving his fingers in the rest of the way hard and fast. Peter arched them up off the bed again, this time immediately flopping back down, his agile legs wrapping around Wade’s mid-back, trying to draw him closer and deeper. Wade, now looking up to watch the play of expressions on Peter’s rosy face, stole several kisses as he finger-fucked Peter with two, then three fingers. He even managed to coat his fingers with more lube before he added the fourth, without Peter noticing the brief absence of fullness.

 

By now, Peter was so hard, it _hurt_. But he couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ come until Wade was inside him. He drummed his right heel against Wade’s back. “Ready, now . . . please . . . fuck me, Wade— _Daddy_ —”

 

“Okay, baby . . . if you think you’re ready. . . .”

 

“I am . . . just . . . _hurry_. . . .”

 

“Nope. We’re gonna take this nice and slow so I don’t tear you open like a bag of _Doritos_ , and so I don’t blow my load halfway in you. Okay?” Though it wasn't really a question, Peter nodded.

  

“Okay . . . _wait_! Lemme see you?” he asked softly, cupping Wade's cheek in his palm. Wade’s lenses widened in something that seemed like panic. But before Wade could say no—or pull away—Peter clenched his legs tight around the other man’s waist, and drew him close with one arm around his neck, till their foreheads were touching.

 

“If this thing between us lasts . . . if you don’t get sick of me being . . . how I am . . . eventually, I’m gonna see your face, Wade.” Peter sighed, letting his thumb stroke Wade's seductively soft lips. “I wanna associate that face, _whatever_ it looks like, with the amazing feeling of being filled up and _owned_ by you. I wanna see _your face_ when I come, _not_ your mask. I want . . . oh, God, _Wade_ . . . I want _you_. _Just_ you. _Please_.”

 

Wade sighed, too, and turned his head slightly, so he could kiss Peter’s palm.

 

“I just _got_ you, Princess—thought I was hallucinatin' again when I opened my front door, but . . . you didn't disappear. Just looked at me like . . . like _no one_ ever has. Like you might _die_ if you didn't get me, and I couldn't believe that or you, at first. Couldn't . . . understand _why_ you were here. Didn't wanna risk believing that what happened on that damn boat might actually _mean_ _something_ to you, too. That it might mean more to you than just not wanting to die a virgin." Wade took a breath that hitched and turned his face into Peter's palm again. "I never thought you'd come _looking_ for me, Peter Parker. Never thought you'd ever  _really_ wanna be with me in _any_ kinda way, but . . . you _do_. You do. And I _don’t_ wanna lose you because I'm too fuckin' ugly for an angel like you to handle.”

 

“You won’t,” Peter said tenderly, trying on his most reassuring smile. "And there's no such thing, remember? I'm just a skinny, short, white boy from Queens. There's a _million_ of me."

 

"There's only _one_ Peter Parker, Baby Boy." Wade's breath huffed humid and hot on Peter's palm. "And I kinda don't wanna scare him off."

 

"Trust me: I don't scare easily. I _want_ this, Wade. I want _you_."

 

“But—”

 

“ _You won’t scare me off, Wade_.” Peter leaned back into the mattress, gazing into Wade’s lenses. He smiled up at his lover as a wave of unaccustomed fondness washed over him. “You’ve trusted me with your life, Deadpool . . . trust me with _this_.”

 

“Losin’ you’d hurt a _hell_ of a lot more than unalivin’ ever did, Baby Boy,” Wade mumbled in a broken, vulnerable voice, but nodded once, his hand coming up to cover Peter’s for a moment before dropping away again. “Go ahead, then.”

 

Peter bobbed up to nuzzle Wade’s nose again, then slowly, gently rolled the mask up and up, until it was free of Wade’s head and hanging from Peter’s fingers. He stared into Wade’s face, the hairless brows and scalp, the high, sharp cheekbones, the square jaw and aristocratic nose. The full, but now grim mouth and the tightly closed eyes. . . .

 

Reaching out to drop the mask on Wade’s night table, Peter pressed a light, chaste kiss to those anxiety-thinned lips. “Please, Wade . . . open your eyes, handsome. _Look at me_.”

 

Wade’s nose wrinkled and he sighed, but then he cracked his eyes open just a bit. Peter could barely make out hints of vivid blue-green, and smiled. “I meant so I could _see_ your _eyes_ , Papa Bear! C’mon! We’re most of the way there, don’t wuss-out, _now_!”

 

Wade snorted and blinked, letting his lids open wider and wider, until Peter was gazing into eyes the color he’d imagined the sea to be when he was very small. Almost too intense and electric to be real. And when coupled with that proud, handsome bone-structure and uniquely intaglioed skin . . . the noble alignment of brow, nose, chin, and jaw . . . Wade Wilson was. . . .

 

“You’re so _beautiful_ , Wade . . . _how_ are you so beautiful?” Peter breathed, grinning and hugging his lover close and tight, until Wade’s surprise slowly turned into shivering acceptance, and he hugged Peter back. Then Peter was leaning out of the embrace just enough to cup Wade’s jaw in his hands and kiss every inch of that glorious face. Wade’s fantasy-sea-blue eyes were still wide and shocked, like a man who’d tripped over a pothole and fallen into a feather-bed.

 

But sooner, rather than later, he began to kiss Peter back, sucking at his lips as if they were sweeter than candy and bearing his own large body up so he could get the leverage to resume the activity that’d lead them to this moment.

 

Peter groaned but loosened the grip of his legs when Wade started to shift into a more user-friendly position. Then he was holding Peter open and pressing the tip of his dick against Peter’s asshole. It slipped in easily at Wade’s slight urging, and Peter made an embarrassingly high-pitched noise as he clutched at Wade’s broad, hard shoulders.

 

“Too much?” Wade asked solicitously. Peter barked a strained laugh as he fought not to come instantly from even that small bit of stimulus.

 

“Not _enough_.” Then, deciding that needed clarification, Peter forced open his eyes to see Wade frowning. “I mean, I need _more_ of you in me. Need _all_ of you in me, Wade . . . I _promise_ , you won’t harm me. Nothing that feels this _good_ could _ever_ harm me. _Please_.”

 

Wade’s eyes searched his for almost a minute before he smiled a little, then continued his slow, steady push _in_ , gritting his teeth just as Peter gritted his, fingers biting into the flesh of Wade’s shoulders till blood ran down Wade’s back. The other man hissed, but didn't change the pace of his thrust or shift his gaze from Peter's, until. . . .

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Peter sighed softly, breathlessly, as Wade finally drove the last two inches home with one sharp, powerful stroke. They stared up into each other’s faces, panting and grinning idiotically, until Peter reached up with his shaking left hand and cupped Wade’s cheek in his palm tenderly once again, smearing traces of blood like oddly-placed warpaint.

 

"You _feel_. . . ." he breathed shakily as the muscles in his abdomen cramped and complained about his body being so suddenly _skewered_ and full . . . as his body fought to accommodate both Wade's length _and_ girth, twitching like crazy, fluttering like mad, and spasming in a way that Peter couldn't control. All he knew was he needed _more_ of it. "I _need_ —"

 

"I know what you need, Pete." Wade slowly pulled out of Peter’s body, till only the very tip of his cock remained in Peter and Peter had thrown his head back into the pillow, panting and moaning and pleading for Wade to fill him up again, and drive away the emptiness, even if it _did_ split him in two like a cord of wood. Wade kissed away those pleas as he pushed back in a bit faster than the first time and a bit harder. "I know what you _been_ needin', Princess, and I'm gonna give it to you till you scream my name."

 

And, with that confident pronouncement, Peter's body finally, _finally relaxed_ around Wade's cock, so suddenly that Peter moaned and instinctively clenched his muscles tight, till  _Wade_ hissed and moaned helplessly, like a trapped animal, pulling out fast, but easing back in slowly. The cramping and spasming throughout Peter's body began to ease, too, though the twitches and flutters merely changed tenor from shocky and uncomfortable, to something else entirely. Something that made Peter nothing so much as _extremely_ aware of every hard, scarred inch of Wade's dick in his body, and how _good_ those inches _felt_.

 

He experimentally tightened every muscle still under his control, bearing down with almost his entire body on the hot, huge hardness cleaving him. "Please, Wade . . . _daddy_. . . ." he clenched his muscles even tighter around Wade’s dick. Clamped down with all his spidey-strength until Wade made that helpless, trapped sound again . . . even though the effort left Peter feeling as if he was about to maybe die from an escalating mix of agony and ecstasy. Left him aching and trembling, but in a really _good_ way that Peter couldn’t describe even to himself.

  

" _Petey, baby_ , I—" this time, when Wade pulled out, his entire body was shivering and quaking. And when he drove back in, slightly harder and faster than before, they both cried out in abject desperation, Peter's fingers digging into Wade's shoulder again while his other hand still reverently, tenderly cupped Wade's blood-streaked face. Wade's big hands, meanwhile, were holding Peter's ass open wide, biting into his cheeks so hard, Peter could feel blood vessels bursting.

 

Then Wade pulled out and thrust in once more, even harder and faster than the time before. And again, faster and harder, still.

 

Until Peter’s panting and moaning and pleading became greedy, demanding grunts and groans and thrusts back up to meet each one of Wade’s. Until Wade was beyond all gentility and coddling. Until they were both crying out loud again, and leaving bruises and contusions on each other wherever their greedy, feverish hands landed.

 

But for the occasional blink and brief moments here and there to fight off his climax, Peter never once looked away from Wade’s handsome face and brilliant eyes. Held that gaze until tears rolled down Wade’s face and his thrusts gained power but lost rhythm . . . even as his eyes grew softer and more adoring.

 

“Petey . . . oh, _Petey_. . . .” he moaned, gritting his teeth again as his eyes finally shut tight. “ _So_ close . . . gonna . . . _oh, fuck_ . . .gonna _come_. . . !”

 

Peter, who’d been fighting everything in him not to just shoot from the moment Wade breached his hungry body, grinned and arched up into Wade, their skins slipping against each other from sweat. He clutched at Wade’s shoulders, then around his neck, burying his face in Wade’s throat against the fast, strong pulse . . . inhaling Wade’s musky, masculine scent and tasting his salty skin. “Yes, please, come in me. Fill me up, just . . . don’t let me go!”

 

“ _Never_.”

 

Then Wade pinned Peter to the bed with his hands and his body, grunting as he drove himself into Peter hard and deep and fast, his brow furrowed and face scrunched up in intense concentration. Every thick muscle of his broad chest was straining and corded out in sharp relief. And then—

 

Peter was gasping in ecstatic shock as Wade’s dick twitched or _something_ in his body, before filling the tight confines surrounding it with thick, scalding-hot come for what felt like eons, his grip on Peter’s right wrist and left bicep clamping down to the point of pain as he continued to thrust hard and shoot even harder, his head thrown back as almost agonized groans were drawn from his throat.

 

“Oh, Wade, you’re so _beautiful_ . . . so . . . so— _oh_!” Peter’s vision was washed away by white light as his body exploded into color without shape and light without form.

 

The only thing—besides indescribable pleasure—that he was aware of throughout was Wade’s body collapsing on his own heavily, still hard, but resting for a few moments before gently, steadily thrusting in and out of Peter’s body again, working it through the titanic orgasm that sought to unmake it. Tethering Peter to Earth with the sweet, reverent ownership of the act; the solid, protective weight of his body; and with tender, loving kisses.

 

“Baby Boy,” he whispered, and: “My perfect Princess.” And also: “Peter . . . my sweet, lovely Peter. . . .”

 

And then the light and color faded . . . gentled into a safe, velvet-soft darkness for a brief span.

 

#

 

The first thing Peter became aware of was something sharp poking into his back and shoulder.

 

He groaned grumpily, mumbling nonsense complaints as he buried his face in the musky hollow that had presented itself as soon as he shifted.

 

“Damn. I think we _wrecked_ your tiara, Princess,” a hoarse voice rumbled from very nearby as that pointy, hard something was tugged out from under his back. There was a distant clink as plastic hit plaster. “Whatever. Like I said: I’ll get you a _real_ one, real _soon_.”

 

“Mmm. . . .” barely awake, Peter burrowed his face into the skin he encountered. It was soft and intaglioed, and coupled with the hand now stroking possessively, lazily up and down his right bicep, Peter soon forgot about whatever had been poking him in the back. He didn’t even open his eyes. There was no need to. Everything was right with his world, now. _Everything_ . . . from the deliciously tired and weighty feel of his own body, to the aches in places that’d never ached before, to the sensitivity of his own tingling skin.

 

And he felt _right_ in that skin in a way he never had before.

 

“Hmm . . . Wade. . . ?”

 

“Yeah, baby?” Peter was held even closer to that warm, firm body and the soft skin he couldn’t stop nuzzling.

 

“. . . thank you.”

 

A gentle kiss landed on Peter’s forehead, just above his right eye. “ _Anything_ for my pretty little Princess.” Teasing-but-not-quite voice. Peter hummed again then sighed.

 

“I’mma take a power-nap, then . . . then can we do it again, Papa Bear? Only . . . _slow_ , this time?”

 

Wade moaned softly, pulling Peter’s lax hand to his lips to kiss it repeatedly. “Like I said, Princess: What _ever_ you want.”

 

“Cool beans.” Peter snuggled against Wade happily, snuffling into Wade’s throat as consciousness beat a hasty retreat. “You take _such_ good care of me.”

 

“Always will, Baby Boy. Always will.” Another kiss, this one on the bridge of Peter’s nose, as Wade pulled Peter’s hand down to rest on the scarred skin over his heart. The beat was strong, slow, steady, and better than the best lullaby Peter could remember his mother singing to him. “Sleep well, Petey-pie. You’re gonna need it.”

 

Peter’s reply was a jaunty and confident snort, then a mumbling, semi-loud snore.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna know what happens next? You and me, both!
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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